The Woman in White
by phantastic23
Summary: Christian is still depressed and alone. But everything changes when he his vistied by a ghost. The ghost leads him on a chase back to his old life, when he must save a young girl from The Duke. Loosley based on Andrew Llyod Webber's The Woman in White.
1. Chapter 1

December 1901

Drip…Drip…Drip.

Christian stood over the rusty sink, staring at himself through his dirty mirror. He could barely see his own reflection; there was only one slit of clear glass.

The faucet, dripping slightly brown water, was broken, but he had never bothered to fix it. Christian wrapped a towel around his waist and walked into the main room of his garret.

After resting in his bed for three days, alternating between writing drabble on his typewriter and drinking absinthe, he finally decided to get up and do something.His garret was very dark, for he had pushed the curtains down. The floor was filled with old clothes, broken bottles, and papers.

He walked over to his bed, and looked through the tangled sheets. He found a pair of black pants. He threw the towel onto the floor and swiftly put on the pants, lifting his suspenders onto his shoulders. He didn't bother putting on his white shirt.

He dragged his heavy body into the bed, falling onto the soft pillows. He leaned on his side, staring at the broken absinthe bottle and mess of papers until they grew blurry. He slowly closed his eyes.

Drip…Drip

Laughter-probably Toulouse's. When was the last time Christian laughed?

Drip…Drip…Laugh…

"_Christian" _

Christian's one eye quickly opened. Who was that? Christian's single eye scanned the dark garret. It was probably his imagination. He closed his eyes. His mind began to get used to the pure darkness.

"_Christian..." _

Christian bolted up. "Who is that?" He said out loud, panting heavily. Christian was never easily spooked, but he could clearly hear his name.

He could barely see in the garret. But he didn't want to open the curtains. He'd go blind by the intense rays of the sun that he hadn't seen in ages.

A chill began to run slowly up his spine. The garret suddenly became colder. Christian gathered up the blankets, wrapping them around him. He reached for his scarf which was twisted in the sheets. His papers that were hung on the walls started dancing and swirling throughout the room.

Then, it stopped. Christian's breathing slowed down, and he began to warm again. He took off the blankets. He held his hand up to his head.

"All that absinthe must be getting to me" Christian murmured to himself.

His worn out body fell down onto the bed. He held his eyes open for two more minutes, waiting for something to happen. His eyes grew heavy, and he slowly drifted back to sleep.

He didn't notice the faucet had stopped dripping.

"Christian!" An ear-splitting voice suddenly rang. Christian was immediately awake, his head thumping. He had to force his eyes open, however. His eyes slowly got used to the shape of tiny little Toulouse bumbling into his room.

Toulouse carried a bowl of soup. He placed the bowl on a table next to his bed. Christian sat up, rubbing his eyes. His head gradually began to stop thumping. Christian noticed he was shivering, and wrapped the blankets around him.

"It is awfully cold in here, isn't it?" Toulouse said. He turned to the window. Christian yawned.

"Were you calling me before?" He said quietly.

"No. I've been out and about. That's something you ought to do. Why don't you eat some soup and go for a walk?" Toulouse said nonchalantly.

Christian groaned. "It's too bright out."

Toulouse didn't say another word. Christian sighed. He knew that Toulouse was only trying to be a good friend. He decided to oblige Toulouse somehow by starting to eat the soup.

The soup was warm. It felt delicious running down his throat. He hadn't eaten too much in the past couple of days.

"Thanks for this." Christian said.

Christian continued eating. He could feel Toulouse staring at him sadly.

Christian looked up. He ignored the stare, letting Toulouse shut the door on his own. Once again, he was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Anya walked slowly through the streets, pulling her coat closer towards her. She walked past a bar with drunken men holding half-empty absthine glasses in her hand. The men hollered at her, and Anya's cheeks turned red.

Anya put her hand up to her blushing cheeks. She hated when they did that. She spotted the alleyway that she had been directed to.

Anya was on her own in Paris, hopeful for an enchanting life with parties, love, drunken nights, pretty dresses and diamonds. She could perhaps become an actress. Something a poor girl could only dream about. She shared her dreams with a friend of hers who knew someone who could make those dreams come true.

Harold Zidler was his name. He used to be famous at the Moulin Rouge, the one place of glamour. Anya could only dream of going to the Moulin Rouge. But it had been shut down. For what reason, she did not know.

Anya's coat was torn, and didn't warm her very well. She stopped in front of the alleyway, which was filed with muddy puddles of cold, rainy, Paris water. The rain filled Anya's high heels, which had a big gaping hole, and filled into her thin stockings.

She leaned down to pull her shoe tighter, and gasped suddenly. She could see a faint shadow. A man was standing there.

"Hello, poppet." A raspy voice said. Smoke slowly circled out of his mouth, as he took the cigarette out of his mouth.

"Hello, sir. My name is Anya. I'm interested in your . . . well your business, sir."

"What for, then?"

"Well . . . all I really want is a good life. A life with parties and glamour. Those say you can provide that."

"How old are you, darling?"

"I just turned eighteen, sir."

"Eighteen, eh? Do you know what I am? What I do?"  
"Not exactly, sir. But I'm willing to do anything." Anya said.

Anya bit her lip, and looked around nervously. She didn't know what she had gotten herself into.


	3. Chapter 3

Christian had finished Toulouse's soup, and was sitting in front of the typewriter. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of wine and drank some. His eyes began to turn blurry and teary-eyed. He shut his eyes hard and opened them again, and they were clear.

Christian put his head in his hands. He sighed. He placed one finger on the typewriter; pressing a lonely S. Christian continued typing. S. A. T. I. N. E.

He sighed and hanged his head heavily. He looked up and stared out the window. It was still daytime, but his room was so dark, you couldn't tell the difference.

Christian stared into an empty glass next to him. Suddenly, the room became cold again. He gasped, as he thought he saw a faint image of a face in the glass.

The face was a woman. But you could barely see her.

"_Christian..."_

Christian let out a small cry, jumping up from the table. He shut his eyes tightly, rubbing them with his hand. He opened them again. Nothing was there. Christian groped his hand for his chair and put the blankets around him. He ran into the bathroom. He felt for sure he was going mad. Maybe mad with grief?

Christian jumped to the mirror, hanging his head, his hands clutching the side of the almost broken sink. Christian looked up into the mirror, but the woman was there. She looked frightened, and unreal. But he had no time to look; he screamed and jumped back in fright.

"_You must save her. Save her!" _

Christian closed his eyes tight, but tripped on an empty bottle and pile of clothes. He fell back, but supported himself with his arms. He opened his eyes and stared at the mirror in horror.

The woman's face was fading. She whispered something else…some kind of name. Then, she slowly faded.

There was a knock on Toulouse's door. Toulouse tried to get through the mess of year-old stage scenery from last year's _"Spectacular, Spectacular"_ Toulouse hurried towards the door, and swung it open.

It was a man, a smarmy bit of a fellow. He had ragged clothing and smelled horrible. His hair was greasy and messy. He carried a note in one hand.

"Message from Harold Zidler."

Toulouse cocked his head, and took the letter from the man's grubby hands. He hadn't spoken to Harold Zidler in years. Toulouse opened the note.

The Duke is back. Don't tell Christian.

Toulouse looked up at the man, and slowly folded the letter.

"Thank you." He said.

December 31, 1901. Christian slowly typed the date. It was the anniversary of Satine's death. Christian had tried not to think about it all day, but after his breakfast (cold porridge provided by Toulouse) it was all he could think of. Christian didn't know how to handle himself. Should he sit at home, wallowing about, drinking . . . or should he go out? Maybe visit her grave.

Christian's head came back up, out of his hands. Maybe that's what he should do. It's what she would have wanted. Satine would not want to see him like this. But still, he hadn't truly gone out in many months. There was the very rarity of visiting a bookstore or so, but otherwise, Christian was in bed at home.

Christian stood up, and looked out the window. He was only wearing an undershirt and his usual black pants. How could he go out in these? Did he even have his old clothes anymore? Christian had sold his tuxedo and top hat to a pawn shop. He had no use for glamorous things anymore.

Christian's eyes wandered to the Moulin Rouge. It was hard not to miss it, being directly in front of his home. After the Duke had learned to Satine's death, he immediately shut down the Moulin Rouge, leaving it in ruins. What was once the hottest spot in town…was now desolate and as quiet as a graveyard. The sign was rusting and the letters were falling. The windmill stopped turning, parts of it on the edge of falling off. Everyone was effected by the end of the Moulin Rouge. Christian was never truly sure what had happened, but he was sure then women were selling themselves.

Zidler had been left completely broke. Rumor was he fled to the slums of Paris, but Christian thought it was unlikely. Besides electricity, Zidler loved money. Zidler had to be out making money somehow.


	4. Chapter 4

Anya walked into what must be the dirtiest room in Monmarte. And the smallest. This was where she was to achieve a glamorous life? The very slums of Monmarte? It was the only chance she had. She had to make a living somehow. And if being a prostitute was the way to do it, Anya didn't care.

The room was extremely narrow, the wooden, decaying door on the side of a dark alley. The roof was decaying as well, small droplets of water falling on the ground. There were several bunk beds aligned on the sides.

Some women were on them, reading magazines, or staring at Anya. On the walls, there were posters from the Moulin Rouge hung. There were also costumes hung on racks. Feathers, can-can skirts.

Anya made her way to the back, holding up her purple skirt. Her light purple heels wobbled as she walked in the tight spaces. She made her way to the end of the room. This is where Harold had told her to meet him.

Anya tucked her flowing red hair behind her ears. Her blue eyes sparkled with all the lights that hung on the ceiling. _I guess electricity is the only thing Harold can afford._ She thought to herself.

After her first meeting with Harold, he immediately phoned her and told her to go meet up with him right away. She didn't know why.

Anya reached the end of the room.

Harold, who was a very pudgy man with a thick red beard, and curly red hair that was very frizzy, sat at a cheap wooden desk. His hands were folded.

"Anya…I have someone you should meet."

Christian blinked and walked away from the window. "I'm going to see her." He decided, speaking softly to himself. Christian walked towards the hole in the ceiling. Even thought it was boarded up, he could still yell up to Toulouse.

"Toulouse, I'm leaving for a while. I'll be back." Christian yelled up. He waited for an answer.

"Toulouse?" There was no answer. Toulouse had left.

Harold never expected to see the Duke again. Ever. Especially after…Satine. Harold had stood up to the Duke. He had averted the Duke from killing Christian, and had given the Duke the unhappy ending. He thought the Duke would never show his face again. After Satine's death, the only contact they had was the Duke's letters signing the closure of the Moulin Rouge.

It was thanks to the Duke that Harold had to sell women in the slums of Monmarte.

Nevertheless, Harold was in a local bar, drinking another night away. He finally dragged his fat, drunken body up. Zidler left the bar; wandering the lonely, cold streets of Monmarte. Suddenly, he bumped thin little man with a long mustache wearing a very expensive coat. He also had manservant with him. Despite the rich and costly appearances, this man had looked tired and haggard. A faint stubble had formed on his chin and bottom of his face near his mustache.

Zidler couldn't see clearly, partly because of all of the drinks had made his eyesight cloudy, and there was only a faint glowing streetlight.

"Sorry." Zidler mumbled incoherently.

The man stood up a little taller, his face now illuminated in the light. Zidler looked up into his eyes. Zidler's eyes widened. It was the Duke. Zidler's senses became a little bit clearer now. Zidler turned to the manservant, with a big, bald head. It was Warner!

"Duke?" Zidler was afraid to say the words.

"Zidler. It's you." His snake-like voice said. The Duke was holding a cane, but it seemed to be worn. Just like his shoes. The Duke looked like money, as usual, but money that was slipping out of his fingers.

Zidler was stunned. How could he possibly talk to this man?

"I. . . I heard you were in Paris. At least-"

"Yes. It appears I've been having some…financial trouble. I'm here to collect any money I have left in my accounts here."

"I see." Zidler said quietly, hoping he could leave.

"Zidler...I hear you run a little business here?"

Zidler was skeptical. What did the Duke want with low-class prostitutes? Had the Duke really become washed up?

"Courtesans have proved to be too expensive. I suppose your rates have lowered?" The Duke chuckled to himself. Over what, Zidler was not sure. Zidler looked up at the Duke, unsure of what he was going to say next.

Zidler decided to speak first. "Well, yes. But Duke, nothing for your…tastes."

_Why am I kissing his ass? Don't you remember what he did!_ Zidler thought to himself.

"Perhaps you can show someone to me. I'm in need of a bit of entertainment around here. Financial business, you know how it is."

Zidler tried to blink, trying to consume all this. But his head hurt too much. Instead, Zidler just nodded. He felt himself handing the Duke a card of his address.

The Duke nodded, walking away.

Zidler closed his eyes, wondering what he had just done.

_What's done is done. At the end of the day, it's all business. The show must go on, _was all he could think.


	5. Chapter 5

Christian bundled his coat closer to his chest. He walked down a narrow street way. The street way was filled with vendors. An afternoon of snow flurries filled the air. The sky was grey and dreary. There were plenty of people on the sidewalks; artists, prostitutes, homeless people, drunken people.

Christian looked at one of the vendors. A bearded man was selling flowers. Christian took out some coins and handed them to the bearded man. Christian took a bundle of pink flowers. As Christian continued to walk, he looked at the flowers. Some of the edges were black and some petals were drooping. The flowers were already dying.

Christian reached the end of the narrow street way, crossing to a hilly area. It was one of the only patches of green in Monmarte. Beyond the graveyard was the river. The river where he had once rowed Satine on . . . and the Duke.

Christian opened the rusty gate. The sky was beginning to grow a little blacker. Mist began to slowly fill the graveyard.

Christian made his way to Satine's grave.

The story of Satine's grave and funeral was not much to talk about. The Duke left and closed down the Moulin Rouge and left everyone broke. Christian, Toulouse, Satie, the Doctor, Chocolat, and the Argentinean had scrapped up as much money as they possibly could.

However, the church would not allow a proper burial. Christian managed to convince the priest to get a proper grave in a real cemetery, because courtesans were very immoral to the church.

After that, there was nothing else for Christian to live for. Nothing else to do. Her grave had sealed Christian's relationship with Satine. It was over for Christian after that. Satine had been taken care of.

Christian took the little pink flowers and gently put them in front of Satine's little gray grave.

SATINE BELLOW

1869 - 1899

Christian did not have enough money to engrave a saying. But in his heart he knew what he would engrave.

Christian sighed heavily but didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want to talk to the grave, he didn't believe in that. He truly wanted to kneel before the grave and cover it with tears, but he tried to hold himself back. What was he even doing out here in the first place?

Christian put his hands in his pocket, and turned to the entrance of the grave. He could barley see it. The nighttime had arrived, and the moon was shining. The mist had risen up a bit more, and it was hard to see.

Suddenly, the mist began to part in two. Then, there was a woman standing in the shadows.

Christian drew in a breath.

"Hello?" He called out. His voice trembled a bit.

The woman was clearer now. She wore all white. She had red hair, but there were traces of blonde. She had shining blue eyes. Her eyes could almost stare through your soul. Her thin lips were drawn in a frown. Her eyes were wide.

"_Christian…" _

Her haunting voice chilled the air. Christian gasped. It was the woman in the mirror! It was a woman all in white.  
"Who are you?" Christian yelled out. He looked around. He suddenly grew nervous. The woman in white stretched her hand out towards him, wanting him to come closer. Christian looked around, he was now frightened.

Christian began to blow raspberries. This always seemed calmed him a bit. He shook his face, softly patting his cheeks. "This is absurd."

The woman's eyes never left him. She stood, her hand outstretched. Then, the woman began to speak. No, not speak. The woman began to sing.

Her voice was high-pitched, much like her speaking voice. It ended in barley a whisper, but wobbled as she sang. It was breathy and haunting.

"_Christian James. I remember you."_

Christian did not know what to do. So, he sang back.

"_Are you of this world? Have I imagined you?" _

_"You see I am a ghost, before you. I am not flesh and_

_blood. Believe your eyes. Kind sir, my name is Anne. Anne Catherick. And believe my words I tell no lies. Monmarte was my home in childhood. Though I didn't live here long. Killed by him when just a girl, though I did nothing wrong. Imprisoned in a dark tower, by a man of guile and treachery. The truth will see the light, I vow it! No he thinks that he can silence me. I have a secret one I must share with you. I must find the one I seek to spare her what I've been through!" _

The woman in white, Anne, had to take a breath, she was so excited. Christian could not move from his spot. He had to listen to her voice.

"_I'll tell you of my cruel tormentor. When I think of him I'm filled with shame. I'll tell you who he is this instant. You will not forget his name."_

Anne stopped. Then she whispered, "The Duke."

Christian's eyes widened. "The Duke?" He whispered as well. Christian stared at Anne. But then a thought hit him. What was he doing? He must be dreaming! This woman claims she is a ghost. That's absurd!

"Who are you really? A ghost? I don't believe it."

Anne came closer to him. She held out her hand. Christian lifted his hand up, and tried to grasp hers. His hand fell right through her. Christian looked up at Anne in horror.

"What do you want with me?! And what is this you claim about the Duke?"

"We need to save her. We must save her. From him."

"Who? From save who from who? The Duke?" Christian tried to read her eyes. "Save a woman from the Duke?"

"Yes! Yes! _You must help me! We must find her_." She sang.

"What do you mean?" Christian said, exasperated. He didn't understand this woman at all. He was still trying to get all this through his head.

"_We must save her!"_ Anne sang again.

Anne continued repeating it. Christian put his hands over his ears, closing his eyes. What was going on?

"NO!" He shouted. Christian opened his eyes. The woman in white was still there. "I don't understand this. You're not real. You can't be. I'm-I'm just dreaming. Oh, Jesus."

Christian began to run. He ran to the rusty gate and quickly opened it.

"You must save her! Or else she'll end up like the woman you loved." Anne said. She began to make sense, instead of babbling.

As soon as Christian heard that, he stopped dead in his tracks. He looked toward the woman.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me. Please, come back. I must tell you everything."

Christian stared at the woman. She seemed normal…yet transparent. She couldn't be a ghost, though. Ghosts weren't real. Christian felt his skin grow colder. He had to leave.

Christian shut the gate quickly, and ran down the narrow streets of Monmarte.


End file.
